Chapter 9: Naturwissenschaften

When Harry woke up later in the morning, it was if a veil had been pulled from his eyes. He inhaled sharply through his nose, the clarity of the room sparkling, watching the dust particles dance in the early beams of light. A stillness filled his mind, smoothing out the crinkles of the last school year.

When Harry got better, he hadn't expected it to be all at once. But in that moment, Harry didn't feel like ripping off his flesh and crawling out of his own body for the first time in over a year. He felt ripples of emotion scatter across his chest, aware but not painfully so. Laughing lightly, wondrously, as his heart soothed.

Perhaps it was because Sirius and Hermione finally understood. Saw him for what he was and though they fought at first, they didn't run screaming. Or perhaps Harry had just missed talking to Voldemort. He didn't put too much thought into that last one.

Harry sat at the kitchen table and watched Sirius talk. Harry hadn't realised how intense Sirius was before, the man beaming and chattering and overall brighter than the sun. Insane, yes, but that was a trademark Black trait. Sirius was something else. He understood why his parents made the man his godfather. Or would it be dogfather? The thought had Harry smiling.

"Harry," Sirius said suddenly, tone solemn and eyes creased. Harry tilted his head, considering, listening with crystal clarity. "I'm sorry about the… Thing with Hermione yesterday. I didn't mean to tell her everything, it just… I asked to speak to her about it and I didn't realise you hadn't told her because you two spend so much time together and I just… I couldn't stop talking once I got started. I'm sorry, Harry," Sirius ended lamely, looking very much like a kicked dog.

Harry looked at Sirius in surprise, eyebrows raised and blinking owlishly. "I know," Harry said softly, wondering how he had gone so long without being so aware of everything and everyone, only facing inwards and drowning all the more for it. "I don't care. I wouldn't have told you if I was scared of other people finding out."

Sirius looked as if slapped. "You expected me to talk?" Sirius asked, heartbroken.

"You're not a saint, Sirius," Harry laughed, brushing away his godfather's offence. "And I wouldn't care if you told everyone or if you told no one. Though, I would advise against discussing some of the darker stuff. Azkaban, and all that," Harry elaborated unnecessarily. "I wouldn't be surprised if Hermione tells McGonagall, seeing as she's apprenticing with her for the summer."

Sirius looked devastated. "Oh, Merlin."

"Don't be so upset," Harry said a little delightedly. "We'll just wait and see what happens. Surprises are always fun."

"Holy fuck, Harry," Sirius breathed suddenly, approaching him rapidly. Two warm, heavy hands clapped on Harry's shoulders and he looked into Sirius' icy blue eyes with a smile. "Are you feeling alright?" Sirius asked, concerned.

"Yup," Harry answered, popping the p. "I feel pretty good."

Sirius then wrapped Harry in a strong, bone-crushing hug. "Merlin, I thought I'd lost you for a while there," the man muttered, his voice sounding suspiciously thick. "Does it have anything to do with Hermione? You too have been awfully close lately."

Harry pushed on the chest against his with open palms, eyebrows drawn together and mouth twisted in confusion. "Hermione? How so?" Harry asked, baffled by Sirius' non-sequitur.

"Like – you know," Sirius began, grinning wolfishly. "Don't you like her?"

Harry laughed then, a deep, wonderous noise that filled the room. Sirius smiled too unsurely. Harry liked that about Sirius, the man always willing to smile.

"Oh, no," Harry chucked. "Hermione knows that I'm gay."

Sirius reared back in surprise. "You're – what?" He asked, mouth opening and closing as he fought to find words to fill the room.

"Haven't I told you?" Harry asked in surprise, not missing a beat. "Oh, well. I guess that counts as my secret for the day. Will you tell me one?" Harry continued nonchalantly, not interested in anything his godfather might have to say regarding Harry's sexuality.

And wasn't that an odd word for Harry to associate with himself. Sexuality. Harry had never really considered it before until now. Though he supposed he should have; most of his peers were already well past the beginning stages of dating and now moving onto more serious relationships. It never interested Harry before.

"Will I – wait, what?" Sirius stuttered.

"A secret. I've told you lots, even though you didn't really want to hear them," Harry answered, beaming.

"Oh," Sirius said, still looking a little sunstruck and taken aback. "Yeah, sure. Um…" Sirius was quiet for a moment. "I don't know how you do this. I can't think of anything," Sirius said, deflating.

"A secret about my dad, then," Harry encouraged. Why hadn't he ever asked about his parents?

"Oh, I've got one!" Sirius said excitedly. "Your dad was an Animagus like me. He turned into a stag," Sirius said, grinning. "We used to take Moony to the Shrieking Shack during the full moon and we'd play with him to take his mind off the transition. Wormtail came too, but that was before we knew he was a disgusting traitor, obviously." The words were said with very little heat; Sirius seemed to get over his rage of the betrayal (though forever heartbroken) after snapping Wormtail in two.

Harry laughed in amusement. "That's excellent," he crowed. "I would have loved to have seen that."

Sirius looked at Harry oddly. "Not Hermione, but definitely someone. Who?" The man teased.

Harry flushed darkly. He wasn't sure why Sirius was pressing the matter. Harry didn't like anyone like that. "No one," Harry said primly, turning away, though amusing himself at the thought of saying You Know Who.

"Ah, denial," Sirius swooned dramatically. "Let me know when you've given in."

Harry flushed even darker. There was no way in hell he was going to tell his godfather if his mind spontaneously exploded and he fell in love with a Dark Lord. And suddenly unsure why he was even thinking of Voldemort.


A package came by owl two days after Harry's birthday. Harry looked at the strange parcel, wrapped in velvety leather and tied with expensive ribbon.

Sirius crowed, "Ha, Potter!" Looking as if the cat who had caught the canary.

Harry looked at him in surprise, disturbed by his godfather's reaction.

"That's a courting gift. Looks like you're on someone's mind, after all," the old dog whistled, leaning back and failing to stifle a look of infuriating smugness.

Harry paled. If it were to be a gift from Voldemort, Harry wasn't sure if he should open it in front of Sirius. Voldemort had an odd sense of humour.

It was indeed a gift from Voldemort. Though why the monster was sending gifts in courting wrapping, Harry wouldn't know. Harry unwrapped the parcel carefully, lifting the heavy wood lid and slamming it shut swiftly.

"Go on, then," Sirius badgered. "Let me see."

"No," Harry retorted shortly, face twisting. Harry wrapped his arms around the box protectively despite wanting to throw it out the window.

Sirius rolled his eyes. "Harry, I've seen every embarrassing courtship gift under the sun. You should have seen what your father tried to give your mother," the man laughed a little manically, lost in a memory.

"It's not embarrassing," Harry said, despite blushing. It wasn't. But Sirius wouldn't understand. To be honest, Harry didn't either.

"Then let me see!" Sirius demanded, launching across the room.

Harry squawked and toppled with Sirius as he was tackled, the box tumbling out of his hands. Harry watched, face ashen in despair, as the head of Draco Malfoy rolled across the floor.

Sirius screamed.


Sirius made Harry put the box over the head on the floor. It reminded Harry of the time Aunt Petunia made Harry put a mug over a spider in the bathtub, demanding that he leave it there until the spider died. Harry didn't think Malfoy's head could get any deader.

Sirius quickly left the kitchen and sat in the library, head between his knees as he tried to calm his breathing. Harry followed behind, disappointed that the brief peace between them had been ruined so soon. Sirius alternated between hyperventilating and gagging, as if not sure if he should breath or vomit.

"Harry," Sirius finally stated after a long time of breathing and gagging.

"Yes?" Harry asked, turning his head to appraise his godfather.

"Why – why is Draco Malfoy's head in our kitchen?" The man choked out, looking all the more green for it.

"I don't know," Harry answered honestly. "Well, I have an idea. I can't believe it's in the kitchen; we eat in there," Harry sighed exasperatedly.

"You have an idea?" Sirius asked a little hysterically.

"Draco Malfoy kissed me this year," Harry stated, feeling like he was repeating himself a lot now.

"Malfoy?" Sirius squawked, looking horrified.

Harry recalled the moment Malfoy cornered him in the dorms. Their other dormmates had gone to class and Harry was coming out of the shower, clothes on but hair wet. Malfoy had grabbed him suddenly, wrapped arms around his waist, told Harry he was beautiful in a simpering tone, and then pressed an open-mouthed kiss on Harry's lips. It was heated, demanding, and wanton. It was nothing that Harry expected nor asked for. Harry hated it. The fumbling feeling of Malfoy's hands on his hips, a tongue pressed against the crease of his lips, the blond pushing and prodding and pressing him against the wall as if a ragdoll. Horror and disgust welled in his chest, filling him with panicked fury.

Harry wished Very Hard that Draco Malfoy wouldn't be able to feel attracted to anyone ever again. That had nipped Malfoy's advances on him (and anyone, really) in the bud. Malfoy had let him go and Harry punched him for good measure.

"Yes," Harry said distantly, shuddering at the memory.

"Hey," Sirius announced suddenly, placing a hand over Harry's. "What happened?" There was genuine concern in his eyes. Harry was amazed that Sirius could express so much even when he said very little.

"I didn't want him to, but he tried anyway," Harry said, allowing the greasy feeling of disgust spread across his chest. Harry had shut down after that, hiding behind his cloak even more and staying away from his peers. They'd found a new way to torture him, even Zabini running a hand over his back on occasion. Harry had hated it.

Sirius looked furious. "That little shit tried to –" Sirius cut off, eyes darkening and mouth twisting. Harry watched Sirius curiously, not sure what this new emotion was. Fury? Hatred? Rage? Fear?

"You should have told me, Harry," Sirius said then. "So I could have decapitated the twat myself."

Harry blinked at Sirius. That wasn't what he was expecting. "Why?" Harry enquired, curious.

"Harry," Sirius sighed deeply, his other hand wrapping around Harry's scarred left. "How did you feel when Malfoy touched you?" Sirius had dark shadows in his eyes. A little bit like Voldemort, but different. Protective, not territorial. Harry played along, if only to understand.

"I didn't like it. He was following me around a bit before then, sometimes touching my back, sometimes my hands. I told him to stop, but he didn't. And then everyone left the dorms and he kissed me and I panicked," Harry said blankly. "I didn't want him to touch me and I told him not to, using my words like Doctor Welsh and I practiced, but I couldn't get him to stop."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Sirius swore, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. Harry inhaled sharply; Sirius only used muggle swear words when he was Really Upset.

"What's wrong, Sirius?" Harry asked, not sure what this new experience meant.

"That's at least sexual harassment, Harry," Sirius said suddenly, fire in his eyes. "I know you have a habit of understatement, so I'm going to assume it's at least twenty percent worse than what you're saying."

"But that's how you told me mum and dad got together," Harry answered unsurely. "Isn't that just how it works?"

Sirius looked appalled. "No, it was nothing like that for James and Lily! James – sure he was persistent, but he would never… I mean, he did kiss Lily once and she slapped him but –" Sirius cut off, looking at a loss for words.

"How is it any different than what you do, hitting on girls and flirting and bothering them at the pub?" Harry pressed, seeking the boundaries, looking for the rules.

Sirius shifted uncomfortably, then. "I… I can't really explain," he said. "It's one of those things that you just know. You can get a feeling, most times, if a person is playing along or if they're not interested. But if they explicitly say no, then you stop. I imagine that Malfoy had no pretences about how you felt about the matter; you're not exactly shy when it comes to telling people to fuck off."

"That doesn't help me," Harry stated, frowning. Sirius wasn't making much sense.

"What about this new suitor of yours?" Sirius pressed, eyes narrowing dangerously. "Is this unwanted too?"

Harry opened his mouth, paused, and closed it. He didn't know.

"Who is it, Harry?" Sirius asked darkly. "It's not exactly a thing to give other people's heads as courting gifts," he said sarcastically, scowling.

"No?" Harry asked, tone surprised. "Oh." Harry wasn't stupid, he knew it wasn't meant to be like that. But Harry couldn't find it in himself to say Voldemort's name. Not when Sirius had finally come back around.

Sirius looked at him, face twisting, disturbed. "No, Harry," Sirius stated firmly. "It's really important to me that you know that. Murdering people and gifting their body parts is illegal and immoral, even if they're little shits that deserve it. Ask your boyfriend to stop. Though God knows it only makes sense you'd attract someone as twisted as you." Sirius wasn't being mean. Despite the horror of the situation, Sirius almost sounded amused.

Harry flushed a heated red (the thought of calling Voldemort a 'boyfriend' almost making him burst into hysterical laughter – he wondered if that would get under Voldemort's skin too) and he nodded, escaping the library before Sirius could say anything else.


Harry got a few other gifts later that week. Blaise Zabini's finger in a matchbox (the finger he'd used to run down Harry's spine and rested dangerously low on his back – how Voldemort knew, Harry wasn't sure) and a pair of jagged, bleeding lips. Harry wasn't sure who those belonged to, but Harry had the feeling they'd said something mean about him.

Harry was tired of receiving body parts like a cat owner receving dead treats from their pet. He gave in and wrote Voldemort a letter, thanking him for the gesture but letting Voldemort know that gifts were clearly not the monter's strong suit. Harry sent Voldemort a list of his hobbies and recommended that Voldemort pick something suitable.

Sure, it was wildly cheeky, but if Voldemort was going to go through the effort of courtship gifts, he might as well get Harry a set of scales for potions while he was at it.


"I'm not sending you a snitch," Voldemort said into the dark room. Harry opened his eyes and realised that he was back in Doctor Welsh's office. It had been over a week since Voldemort had panicked and ended their last chat. Voldemort looked furious, eyes glittering spitfire red and mouth pursed in a tight line.

"Okay," Harry said, waving his hand. "Whatever works for you. I don't mind."

"I'm not shopping for you, Potter," Voldemort sneered, voice dangerously quiet. "I'm making a point."

"What kind of point?" Harry asked curiously, watching Voldemort seethe.

Voldemort laughed suddenly, the tension in the room breaking minutely. "You're so oblivious I find myself wondering why I even try at all," the man chuckled, long nails tapping the mahogany desk in a rhythmic tempo. "Perhaps I should just show you."

"Show me?" Harry pressed. Voldemort scowled darkly and Harry remembered how the man hated when Harry repeated what he said in the form of a question. "Okay, show me." Harry didn't know what Voldemort meant, but was curious all the same.

Voldemort stopped tapping his nails on the desk and all was silent between the two. Voldemort's eyes flashed, reflecting candles in the room that weren't there, and a slow smirk spread across his lips. For a moment, Harry wished he could take the words back. Strangely enough, not Very Hard.

'How long have you known you could speak Parseltongue?' Voldemort asked instead, eyes studying Harry as if he were a fascinating specimen.

Harry shrugged. Harry didn't know what Parseltongue was, but he supposed it could mean the strange snake language. It sounded like something someone would call a snake language.

'Come now,' Voldemort crooned, taunting, always taunting. 'Don't be shy.'

Harry looked at Voldemort, holding out, smiling charmingly.

'Talk,' Voldemort demanded suddenly, eyes sharpening as he laced the word with compulsion.

Harry stopped smiling, but didn't speak.

Voldemort flung his hand out and a silent spell hit Harry squarely in the chest, making him wheeze upon the force of the impact. A soft, seductive voice in his head sang over and over, talk to me in Parseltongue Harry come now love just a few words let's hear it –

"I don't appreciate being Imperiused," Harry stated, griping the arms of the chair tightly, expression as relaxed as possible. "And you have no right to demand from me."

Voldemort looked shocked. Well, the most shocked Harry had ever seen him. The red eyes only widened marginally.

"I find myself more intrigued with each passing day," Voldemort whispered sweetly as the spell evaporated. "Though you'll find that I have the right to demand as much as I want from you."

"How so?" Harry asked, not protesting, wanting to see where this would go.

"You're mine," Voldemort laughed, as if amused that Harry didn't know yet.

"I'm no one's," Harry answered firmly, nails digging into leather. "Only my own."

"Oh, Harry," Voldemort drawled, tasting the words, head tilting with unnatural smoothness as he appraised Harry. "You're all mine and you don't even know it. You will soon enough."

'Fuck you,' Harry answered simply, finally in Parseltongue, wondering what Voldemort would do. The man didn't seem to take challenges to his control very well.

Partially anticipated though totally unexpected, Voldemort launched over the desk and slammed into Harry. Harry gasped in aching pain as his breath was knocked out of him, Voldemort pulling him out of his chair and rolling across the floor. Harry was pressed into the dark, thick shadows of the room, Voldemort pinning him down, red eyes staring down through inky darkness and trapping Harry with their hellfire light.

Harry didn't realise that one could do this in dreams. Touch, feel, taste all within the metaphysical. It made sense, though, as those things were sensations of the mind anyway. Harry was wrapped in the darkness that was Voldemort, holding him down, unnaturally pale hands braced on either side of his head. Voldemort rarely used physical force, mostly choosing to use magic, unless of course he was trying to make a very specific point. Harry wondered what it was.

"Fuck me?" Voldemort repeated smoothly, tone sweet as honey. It was a threat, a promise, and death wrapped in one, a pretty present seeping from Voldemort's lips and dripping into Harry's soul.

Harry couldn't help it – he shivered. A mouth descended on his with the viciousness of a cobra strike and Harry gasped in surprise, not having expected this turn of events but opening to it all the same.

The mouth was cruel, sharp, biting – more than anything Harry had ever experienced or felt and it was too much too much too much not enough – Harry arching into the frame above, mind reeling, eyes rolling back in his head and a moan swallowed from the back of his throat by another, tasting ashes and magic –

Voldemort pushing him down cruelly, a hand ripping at Harry's hair and a knee between his legs, grinding down and claiming and possessive –

Harry inhaled sharply as sharp teeth bit down on his lip and he woke up suddenly, drenched in sweat and shaking roughly. Harry felt his fingers skitter across the bedspread, making sure Voldemort wasn't there with him, panting and so, so terribly aroused as thoughts flashed through his mind.

Harry felt heat curl in his abdomen, his chest clench uncomfortably, wanting to find Voldemort and finish what the asshole started. To scratch back and make the untouchable Dark Lord as bent out of shape as Harry felt.

Harry stopped suddenly, a feeling of surprise and understanding dousing him with cold water. He focused on his churning emotions, like Welsh taught him (when Welsh was Welsh and not a Dark Lord), and came to a terrible conclusion.

Harry wanted Lord Voldemort.


Harry wasn't sure how, but the marks from his dreams carried through into reality. Harry didn't know when, but the monster had scratched his chest and bit his neck and Harry was covered with bruise after bruise. Harry hid his swollen bottom lip and marked neck from Sirius by claiming to be sick and staying in bed all day.

Harry laid in bed and wallowed miserably.

Want. Harry didn't understand the word nor the meaning. Even though Harry wished a lot, Harry had truly wanted very little in his entire life. He knew of only one thing that he wanted – a family. But that was a long time ago, he had one now, and Voldemort would never give Harry something like a family. Harry snorted at the idea. Voldemort was simply Voldemort. A cause of death, a plague, destruction, chaos, hellfire, the absence of everything and everyone.

Harry found himself inexplicit drawn to Voldemort. Harry didn't think it was love, perhaps lust, but not love. Maybe it could be one day. How did one know when it was love? Harry didn't want to love Lord Voldemort.


"It was very rude of you to leave," Voldemort said amusedly, tapping his nails on the desk again. So cool, calm and collected. Harry hated him for it.

Harry couldn't look at him, couldn't meet the monster's eyes.

'Why did you kiss me?' Harry answered, only vaguely aware he wasn't speaking English. His chest felt raw and sore from processing his thoughts and emotions all day. Harry didn't understand why he couldn't hide from emotions, why he had to process them when they felt like this. Harry watched the pendulum swing and wondered what Voldemort was playing at.

"Look at me," Voldemort hissed. Harry's eyes flickered up, too tired to fight.

"Good boy," Voldemort whispered, appraising, Harry flinching at the words. "And as someone once said to me, why not?"

Harry frowned at him. "You should have told them that's a cheap answer."

Voldemort laughed, the coldness of his voice bringing the room temperature down a few notches. "Indeed," he agreed. "Besides, I wanted to," Voldemort continued flippantly, nails still clattering that annoying tempo on the desk. "Wanted to see how you would react. Rather well, I might say."

"I don't like being kissed," Harry told him firmly, the way Sirius taught him how to say what he wanted without wishing. "Please don't do it again."

"Oh, Harry," Voldemort tutted, pitying. "You never did learn how to lie. Besides, after your first kiss was so terrible, I thought I'd be the one to give you your first good kiss. The kind that'll have you wanting more."

Harry scowled. "I've had enough of kissing for a lifetime, thank you," Harry answered petulantly. Harry didn't care if he was being childish; Voldemort started it first. "And of talking about it. Why am I here?"

Voldemort considered Harry for a moment, fingers suddenly still. The silence was deafening. "I don't know, Harry," Voldemort answered softly, dangerously. "This is your dream, not mine."

"They're not all mine," Harry sighed, irritated, tired of being out in the open all of the time, so raw and obvious and malleable. "Some must be yours." Harry hated the word must, but he couldn't imagine anything else to say.

"Oh, no, Harry," Voldemort crooned darkly. "They're all yours. I think you just don't know exactly how much you like me, dear." Teasing, cruel, always so brutal. The hairs on Harry's arms rose.

Harry stared at Voldemort, face ashen as he processed the information. He was the one calling Voldemort each night? Or was Voldemort lying, trying to get under his skin and watch him bleed?

Harry suddenly didn't care what the answer was. He reached out quickly and knocked the pendulum off the desk, golden brass smashing to the floor, closing his eyes as the dream ended, warping around Voldemort's smug grin.